CHAPTER XIII.

1887.

‘FAUST’—‘WERNER’—‘MACAIRE’—THE ACTOR’S SOCIAL GIFTS.

He was now preparing for his third American tour, the object of which was to introduce to the audiences of the United States his splendid spectacular piece, ‘Faust.’ This had excited much interest and expectation, and its attractions were even magnified by distance. It was the “last word” in scenic display. The Americans have now become a section, as it were, of the Lyceum audiences, and it would seem to be inevitable that at fixed intervals, and when a series of striking plays have been given in England, the manager should feel a sort of irresistible pressure to present the same attractions on the other side of the Atlantic. This expedition took place in October, 1887, and was crowned with all success. Henceforth the periodical visit to America will become a necessity; and a new visit was already planned in concert with Mr. Abbey, which was fixed for 1893.

On the return of the company, after their United States triumphs, ‘Faust’ was revived for a short period. At the close of the first performance the manager announced his plans, which were awaited with some curiosity. “The devil,” he said, “had been to and fro on the face of the earth.” After a month of ‘Faust,’ he proposed to give Mr. Calmour’s ‘Amber Heart,’ to bring forward Miss Terry, while he himself was to conclude the evening with a revival of ‘Robert Macaire.’

On July 1, 1887, the manager of the Lyceum performed one of those many kindly, graceful acts with which his name is connected—an act done at the right moment, and for the suitable person. He gave his theatre to benefit a veteran dramatist, Dr. Westland Marston, who in his day had been associated with the classical glories of the stage, and had written the interesting ‘Wife’s Secret’ for Charles Kean. As he now told the audience from the stage, fifty years had elapsed since he had written his first piece for Macready. The committee formed was a most influential one, and comprised the names of such eminent _littérateurs_ as Browning, Alfred Austin, E. W. Gosse, William Black, Wilkie Collins, Gilbert, Swinburne, Tennyson, and many more. The performance was an afternoon one, and the play selected was Byron’s ‘Werner,’ written “up to date,” as it is called, by Frank Marshall. New scenery and dresses had been provided, though the actor did not propose giving another representation. He, however, intended to perform it on his approaching American tour. It must be said that the play gave little satisfaction, and was about as lugubrious as ‘The Stranger,’ some of the acts, moreover, being played in almost Cimmerian gloom. What inclined the manager to this choice it would be difficult to say. He has rather a _penchant_ for these morosely gloomy men, who stalk about the stage and deliver long and remorseful reviews and retrospects of their lives. The audience, however, sympathizes, and listens with respectful attention.

‘Werner’ was to illustrate once more the conscientious and laborious care of the manager in the production of his pieces. He engaged Mr. Seymour Lucas to furnish designs for the dresses, who drew his inspirations from an old volume of etchings of one “Stefano della Bella” in 1630. So patiently _difficile_ is our manager in satisfying himself, that it is said the dresses in ‘Faust’ were made and re-made three times before they were found satisfactory. In this case all the arms of antique pattern, the dresses, quaint head-dresses, and the like, even down to the peculiar buttons of the period, were made especially in Paris under Auguste’s superintendence.

‘Robert Macaire,’ that strange, almost weird-like drama, was familiar enough to Irving, who had occasionally played it in the early part of his course, and also at the St. James’s Theatre in 1867. For all performers of genius who have taste for the mere _diablerie_ of acting, and the eccentric mixture of tragic and comic, this character offers an attraction, if not a fascination. We can feel its power ourselves as we call up the grotesque figure; nay, even those who have never seen the piece can have an understanding of the character, as a coherent piece of grotesque. There is something of genius in the contrasted and yet intimate union between the eccentric pair. In June, 1883, there had been a performance at the Lyceum for the Royal College of Music, when Irving had played the character, assisted by “friend Toole,” Bancroft, Terriss, and Miss Terry—certainly a strong cast. Toole, on this occasion, was almost too irrepressible, and rather distorted the proportion of the two characters, encroaching on the delicate details in the part of his friend, and overflowing with the pantomimic humours, or “gags,” which are the traditions of Jacques Strop. When the piece was formally brought out, the part was allotted to Mr. Weedon Grossmith, who was in the other extreme, and too subordinate.

The play was produced in July, 1888, and was found not so attractive as was anticipated. It seemed as though it were not wholly intelligible to the audience. There were some reasons for this, the chief being the gruesome assassination at “the roadside inn,” which is old-fashioned, being literally “played out.” More curious was it to find that the quaint type of Macaire seemed to convey nothing very distinct. All accepted it as an incoherent extravagance: which opens an interesting speculation—viz., How many such parts are there which have been the characters of the original actors, and not the author’s—the former’s creation, in short? Lemaître’s extraordinary success was, as is well known, the result of a happy inspiration conceived during the progress of the piece. From being a serious or tragic character, he turned it into a grotesque one. There may have been here something founded on the sort of _gaminerie_ that seems to go with crime; or it may have been recklessness, which, together with a ludicrous attempt at a squalid dandyism, showed a mind not only depraved, but dulled and _embêté_. This sort of inspiration, where an actor sees his own conception in the part and makes it his own, is illustrated by ‘The Bells,’ which—in the hands of another actor—might have been played according to conventional laws.

An English actor who would have succeeded in the part was the elder Robson. In Irving’s case, the audience were not in key, or in tune; the thing seemed _passé_, though our actor had all the traditions of the part, even to the curiously “creaking snuff-box.”[42]

Among Wills’s friends, admirers, and associates—of which his affectionate disposition always brought him a following—was Calmour, the author of some pieces full of graceful poetry of the antique model. Like Mr. Pinero, he “knew the boards,” having “served” in the ranks, an essential advantage for all who would write plays; had written several slight pieces of a poetical cast, notably ‘Cupid’s Messenger,’ in which the graceful and piquant Mary Rorke had obtained much success in a “trunk and hose” character. But a play of a more ambitious kind, ‘The Amber Heart,’ had taken Miss Terry’s fancy; she, as we have said, had “created” the heroine at a _matinée_. It proved to be a sort of dreamy Tennysonian poem, and was received with considerable favour.

‘The Amber Heart,’ now placed in the bill with ‘Robert Macaire,’ was revived with the accustomed Lyceum state and liberality. To Alexander was allotted the hero’s part, and he declaimed the harmonious lines with good effect. I fancy the piece was found of rather too delicate a structure for such large and imposing surroundings.[43]

Whenever there is some graceful act, a memorial to a poet or player to be inaugurated, it is pretty certain that our actor-manager will be called on to take the leading and most distinguished share in the ceremonial. At the public meeting, or public dinner, he can deport himself with much effect.

There are plenty of persons of culture who have been deputed to perform such duties; but we feel there is often something artificial in their methods and speeches. In the case of the actor, we feel there is a something genuine; he supplies a life to the dry bones, and we depart knowing that he has added grace to our recollections of the scene. Nor does be add an exaggeration to what he says; there is a happy judicious reserve. This was felt especially on the occasion of one pleasant festival day in the September of 1891, when a memorial was unveiled to Marlowe, the dramatist, in the good old town of Canterbury. It was an enjoyable expedition, with something simple and rustic in the whole, while to anyone of poetical tastes there was something unusually harmonious in the combination offered of the antique town, the memory of “Dr. Faustus,” the old Cathedral, and the beaming presence of the cultured artist, of whom no one thought as manager of a theatre. A crowd of critics and authors came from town by an early train, invited by the hospitable Mayor. At any season the old town is inviting enough, but now it was pleasant to march through its narrow streets, under the shadow of its framed houses, to the small corner close to the Christ Church gate of the Cathedral, where the speeching and ceremonials were discharged. The excellent natives seemed perhaps a little puzzled by the new-found glories of their townsman; they were, however, glad to see the well-known actor. Equally pleasant, too, was it to make our way to the old Fountain Inn, where the “worthy” Mayor entertained his guests, and where there were more speeches. The image of the sleepy old town, and the grand Cathedral, and of the pretty little fountain—which, however, had but little suggestion of the colossal Marlowe—and the general holiday tone still lingers in the memory. Irving’s speech was very happy, and for its length is singularly suggestive.

It was in October, 1887, that a memorial was set up at Stratford, a clock-tower and fountain, in memory of Shakespeare. It was the gift of the wealthy Mr. Childs, of New York, who has been hitherto eager to associate his name, in painted windows and other ways, with distinguished Englishmen of bygone times. It may be suspected that Childs’s name will not be so inseparably linked with celebrated personages as he fondly imagined. There is a sort of incongruity in this association of a casual stranger with an English poet.

* * * * *

Many a delightful night have his friends owed to the thoughtful kindness and hospitality of their interesting host. Such is, indeed, one of the privileges of being his friend. The stage brings with it abundance of pleasant associations; but there are a number of specially agreeable memories bound up with the Lyceum. Few will forget the visit of the Duke of Meiningen’s company of players to this country, which forms a landmark of extraordinary importance in the history of our modern stage. With it came Barnay, that accomplished and romantic actor; and a wonderful instinct of disciplining crowds, and making them express the passions of the moment, as in Shakespeare’s ‘Julius Cæsar.’ The skilful German stage-managers did not import their crowds, but were able to inspire ordinary bands of supernumeraries with the dramatic feelings and expression that they wanted.

I recall one pleasant Sunday evening at the close of a summer’s day, when Irving invited his friends to meet the German performers at the Lyceum. The stage had been picturesquely enclosed and fashioned into a banqueting-room, the tables spread; the orchestra performed in the shadowy pit. It was an enjoyable night. There was a strange mingling of languages—German, French, English. There were speeches in these tongues, and at one moment Palgrave Simpson was addressing the company in impetuous fashion, passing from English to French, from French to German, with extraordinary fluency. Later in the evening there was an adjournment to the Beef-steak rooms, where the accomplished Barnay found himself at the piano, to be succeeded by the versatile Beatty-Kingston, himself half German. There were abundant “Hochs” and pledging. Not until the furthest of the small hours did we separate, indebted to our kindly, unaffected host for yet one more delightful evening.

The manager once furnished a pleasantly piquant afternoon’s amusement for his friends on the stage of his handsome theatre. Among those who have done service to the stage is Mr. Walter Pollock, lately editor of the _Saturday Review_, who, among his other accomplishments, is a swordsman of no mean skill. He has friends with the same tastes, with whom he practises this elegant art, such as Mr. Egerton Castle, Captain Hutton, and others. It is not generally known that there is a club known as the Kerneuzers, whose members are _amateurs enragés_ for armour and swordsmanship, many of whom have fine collections of helmets, hauberks, and blades of right Damascene and Toledo.[44]

Mr. Egerton Castle and others of his friends have written costly and elaborate works on fencing, arms, and the practice of _armes blanches_, and at their meetings hold exciting combats with dirk and foil. It was suggested that Mr. Castle should give a lecture on this subject, with practical illustrations; and the manager, himself a fencer, invited a number of friends and amateurs to witness the performance, which took place on February 25, 1891. This lecture was entitled “The Story of Swordsmanship,” especially in connection with the rise and decline of duelling. And accordingly there was witnessed a series of combats, mediæval, Italian, and others, back-sword, small-sword, sword and cloak, and the rest. Later the performance was repeated at the instance of the Prince of Wales.

Irving has often contributed his share to “benefits” for his distressed brethren, as they are often called. In the days when he was a simple actor he took his part like the rest; when he became manager he would handsomely lend his theatre, and actually “get up” the whole as though it were one of his own pieces. This is the liberal, _grand_ style of conferring a favour. Miss Ellen Terry “takes her benefit” each year.

In June, 1876, a performance was arranged at the Haymarket for a benefit, when the ever-blooming ‘School for Scandal’ was performed by Phelps, Miss Neilson, “Ben” Webster, Irving, Bancroft, and others. Irving was the Joseph Surface, a performance which excited much anticipation and curiosity. Some time after he performed the same character at Drury Lane. It might naturally have been thought that the part would have exactly suited him, but whether from novelty or restlessness, there was a rather artificial tone about the performance. But what actor can be expected to play every character, and to find every character suited to him? Joseph we hold to be one of the most difficult in the whole _répertoire_ to interpret. At the Belford benefit—and Belford and his services to the stage, such as they were, are long since forgotten—the all but enormous sum of £1,000 was received! For schools, charities, convents even, and philanthropic work of all kinds, some contribution from Henry Irving in the shape of a recitation or scene may be looked for.

Irving s vein of pleasantry is ever welcome as it is unpretentious. I have heard him at the General Theatrical Fund dinner give the toast of “The Army, Navy, and Reserve Forces,” when he said, “There is an Artists’ Corps—I am curious to know why there should not be an Actors’ Corps. _We are accustomed to handle weapons._” On this occasion “friend Toole” had to leave on duty; “whose fine Roman visage,” said his friend, “has beamed on us during dinner—he has been obliged to go away, fortified, I hope, for his arduous labours, but he will return—I know him well—and he will too, I am sure, with a most excellent donation.” He can tell a story or relish a humorous situation with equal effect. In company with Toole, he has often contrived a droll situation or comic adventure.[45]

At one period, when he was oppressed with hard work, it was suggested to him that sleeping in the country would be a great restorative after his labours. He much fancied an old house and grounds at Hammersmith, known as “The Grange”; and having purchased it, he laid out a good deal of money in improving and restoring it It had nice old gardens, with summer-house, a good staircase, and some old panelled rooms.

To a man with such social tastes, the journey down and the night spent there must have been banishment, or perhaps was found too troublesome. Literary men, artists, and the like do not much relish these tranquil pleasures, though practical men of business do. I am certain most will agree that they leave Fleet Street and the Strand with reluctance and return to it with pleasure. After a few years he was anxious to be rid of what was only a useless toy, and it was offered for sale for, I think, £4,000.[46]